The Ashes of Disbelief
by GwenStacy
Summary: He used to believe in a lot of things; love, freedom, innocence, kindness, but the magic would soon wear out. Complete.


**Note – IMPORTANT** –Even if you DON'T LIKE Jess or the ship Literati, I suggest you READ anyways. This is JESS as a character.

**The Ashes of Disbelief**

**Author **GwenStacy

**Disclaimer **I wish.

**Rating** PG-13 (_language, minimal sexual content_)

**Summary **He used to believe in a lot of things; love, freedom, innocence, kindness, but the magic would soon wear out. Complete.

**Playlist/Inspiration **One Last Breath - Creed / _This Boy's Life _by Tobias Wolff

**Note#2** I read _This Boy's Life _by Tobias Wolff. I couldn't help, but see the parallels between Tobias (it's a memoir) and Jess and me. This is the Jess from that. I left out the me. That would be too much. Wrote this in a course of two days. Starts before series, ends season 2. Excuse (and point out) grammatical errors. Reviews would be incredible.

Love;peace;mira

* * *

He used to believe in a lot of things. Before he built up walls around himself, shutting everyone and everything out, and before he let go of the Hope that he had discovered as a child on the lip of Pandora's jar. Stuck and afraid, Hope had crawled onto him like a trembling blue butterfly and whispered in his ear sweet little lullabies that made him believe.

He used to believe in a lot of things.

His mother wasn't a cruel or mean woman in particular. In actuality, she was very nice. She just had problems, and problems, and internal problems that her little boy could not solve for her. No responsibility whatsoever filled the marrow of her bones. They cracked easily under the pressure and she always fell back on her 'helpers'. That's what she called them to his face. Whether it be booze, or drugs, or a new Mr. Right, she would introduce them to him like he was watching some special on Sesame Street—all smiles and innocence.

He wonders why he can't be her 'helper'. He would. She just never asks.

He tried to be one night. His mother came back home one New York evening in tears. Her dress was dirty and the heel of one of her shoes was broken. He watched her through the slit of his doorway, her shadow moving about. She was in their tiny kitchen, fumbling through cabinets, trying to find her hidden bottles. They were not there. She grew frustrated, and banged everything around; his heart cowered in fear.

Finally, a half empty vodka bottle appeared under the ragged cushions of the old couch. As it touched her lips, he flung out the room, running to her side. She took one look at him, and decided to follow the other route. She guzzled the liquid down. It didn't burn down her throat like she needed it to do. Make her drunk as hell. His mother looked at the bottle closer. She smelled it. Water.

Crying again, she fell upon the couch in heap. He sat next her and awkwardly tried to comfort her as she had done a few nights before when he had been scared of the monsters underneath his bed. His arm slid around her back and he spoke soft, soothing words. His voice was never used much, and it had that supple tenderness of a child. His mother rested her head on his tiny chest as stubby little fingers soothingly patted her head like he had seen on TV. He repeated the lazy pattern, the same blameless words, and the same movement of pulling back her dirty blonde hair. She wept on him, for things he didn't understand, until she was asleep and he was quietly watching 'The Simpson's' on mute.

She had said he was the only one she cared about. He was the only one who really loved her.

"I love you, baby"

"Shh…"

That night his chocolate brown eyes had soaked up the heartbreakingly rare motherly tone of her voice, and the way her words has seemed to flow from a damsel in distress and he was her hero. He thought there was a new understanding between them. Maybe she'd walk him to his first grade class today, or come see the play he was in. Maybe she'd take him to the park and they would get ice cream. She would read him a book with that same motherly quality that made green eggs and ham read like Faulkner. He'd fall asleep in her lap, and wake up to her face smiling for once.

"Hey baby boy. Have a nice nap?"

"I love you mommy."

"I--"

His mother found Henry the next day who loved her too. Whom she cared about too. Henry didn't like him. Henry touched him, and made him feel dirty. His mother didn't know. His mother knew she was happy, and that was that.

It was only the nights when she felt her failure creep up on her that the arms of her little boy were what she craved. She thought she would she would have his love forever. Unconditional and absolute.

She was his mother after all.

One time, he was home from school. He was sifting through the mail while eating cookies he had been 'given' by Natalie Fleurant's lunchbox. A name on an envelope caught his eye. The second part was his own name. Mariano. The first he vaguely recognized from snippets of his mother's angry conversations. Jimmy.

It was addressed to him. It was a birthday card. It had money. It made mommy mad when she came from work. It made him sad to see her so upset. It was thrown away.

"Where is my daddy?"

"Where are my cigarettes?"

It was never discussed for a very long time. She never found that pack. He found his daddy. But those are different stories.

There was one story he would laugh about, because he knew if he didn't he would cry.

His mother had forgotten to pick him up from the bus stop two blocks from their apartment. He was itching just to go home since it was right there within his short stride's reach, but the streets that served as obstacles were bloated with traffic that consisted of large trucks that would never spot a little, dark haired boy sprinting across. The possibilities were bleak, and he knew it, so he sat on the bench with his head in his hands, mournfully watching the dizzy cars.

In the corner of his eye, he saw a book open with its spine to the rooftops. Bored, he picked it up and read the title, _Treasure Island._ The tattered pages fluttered promises to him of swashbuckling adventures and evil, smarmy pirates. He was still naive enough to buy into everyone's promises, but it is a good thing he did. The third grader immersed himself into the comfortable corners of the sans-serif type that keep you warm with its blanket of ink.

It was all new to him. His teachers were the type that preferred to handout worksheets and give spelling tests, and then settle in their teacher's chair to read Harlequin novels instead of promoting the joy of reading something worthwhile to their students. What he knew about reading came from the upper grade level kids. They mocked it, and patted each other on the backs when they had read the least amount of books. They prided themselves on being illiterate and sneered at those who did find beauty in books. He had kept away from books.

Yet underneath that yellowed light, a boy found treasure, treasure that was words, and pages, and commas. His eyes glistened, and he wondered why he had never read before with such gusto. Possibly it was because he was trying not to think about how cold his bottom was on the metal seat, or that his stomach grumbled like a midnight storm. All he knew is that he wanted more.

His mother came, huffing and puffing, her eyes bleary and her step awkward. She slowed when she came up to him.

"I'm sorry."

"So'k."

"No, it isn't. I'm a bad mother."

"No your not."

"Pam came over, and she brought a Jack Daniels. She didn't know I've been sober for three months."

"I didn't either."

"Don't get smart with me, young man."

"Don't be late."

"I'm sorry."

"Can you take me to the library?"

She took him. He got a library card. He became one of the kids that were sneered at. He didn't care.

Two years later, there was another letter. This time it was from Mr. Eddington, his teacher. He wrote a note to his mother, explaining that her boy was exceptionally gifted. He thought 'outside the box' and had a 'greater understanding' about everything than the other kids in his class. Mr. Eddington went on to say that when he had picked up a book on the boy's desk, he had glanced inside and saw that he had looked up a few words, highlighting and writing the definition the in edges. Mr. Eddington found it amazing. He suggested that she look into private schools. He gave her an extensive list of swanky places that promised the best education possible, and said that he would be better off there.

With the open paper in her hands, she looked over to the kitchen table where his hand, growing larger everyday, effortlessly flowed across the paper. As he finished his math homework with ease, she watched him with a sweet sort of pride.

"You want to go to private school?"

"No."

"You're too smart to stay where you are."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are. I got a note from your teacher just singing about you. You're going to private school."

"Ok, I guess."

He grinned a bit. The thought of a nice uniform, interesting teachers, and fun kids was exciting.

She looked up the schools later. There were too many zeros behind the four. She bought him new sneakers and a few books from the Salvation Army, and packed him off to the very public middle school.

His mom met Gerald on the bus. He couldn't flag down a taxi that rainy morning to his job down at Wall Street, and she was a regular with a bus pass and a seat that was invisibly assigned to her as she rode to her current job as a seamstress. He sat next to her where usually the pregnant woman that smelled like Lysol sat. She probably went into labor.

Gerald kept looking over at her, obviously checking her out, but she didn't acknowledge him. Finally, she asked him what his problem was.

No problem, he said. It's just that I can't seem to take my eyes off of you. She blushed; swayed and wooed as easily as a daisy in a breeze. He asked her out on a date, and she immediately accepted only because of his handsome navy suit and clipped hair. He looked like a catch to her.

They dated for six months, before Gerald popped the question at their doorstep. She accepted, and Gerald smiled happily at him, calling him 'sport' and 'buddy'. He could almost hear himself growl.

His mother was married a month later, and the apartment was packed up and sent to Gerald's pad. With his last marriage there were kids also, so there was enough room for him. With his last marriage there were hard feelings, so lawyers ran in and out trying to settle the little issues with the divorce, even if it had been two years prior. Wealth and crumbled relationships are messy stuff, as he would come to find out.

He really hated that apartment for the year they lived there as a 'happy' family. He found flaws in every corner, and in every pore of Gerald's hypocritical face. The father-like nicknames stopped soon after the matrimony, and he was constantly the butt of Gerald's complaints. He couldn't do this right. He was stupid. He should play ball like all the other boys. He was just like his screw up father. He would never be anything. He was nothing. Gerald had plenty things to spit out on his preteen stepson's body, and he did do it with frightful gratification as he tore down the boy's self esteem.

"Go to bed."

"It's only six."

"I said, go to bed!"

"Why?"

"You know what, I hate you. You're just some little brat that's dragged along by your mother. You're just weighing her down. You know that? It's kids like you that are going to become the scum of the city. You make me fucking sick."

"I'll go to bed."

The only thing that he liked about the place was the maid's daughter Marianela who cleaned Fridays and weekends while her mother took care of a different client.

Marianela was seventeen, with dusty skin that stretched over womanly curves that made him ache in a way that was new to him. Her dark pink lips were easily prompted to arc into a lazy smile that went with the lazy sparkle of her almond eyes. She always smelled of jasmine, and did her homework with him in the living room.

He tried to learn Spanish so he could converse with her. She knew quite a bit of English, but her Latin accent and songs stuck to her tongue. She'd hum as she worked, always in a perpetual good mood, and when he'd walked in, she'd laugh her lovely laugh and dance with him.

When she was around, his eyes were focused solely on her. He'd follow her around with his eyes, pretending to read as she dusted, and casually glanced at places he had barely begun to think about in a serious way.

Gerald would glance too. He'd glance so hard when he was home, Marianela would feel it and grow uncomfortable. Her smile always vanished when he was around. She'd avoid crossing his path at any cost, and she would keep her head down in a meek way.

One afternoon, his mother wasn't home and Gerald was unaware that he was home. Gerald thought it was just Marianela and himself. He was so quiet there on the sofa, that his stepfather did not notice him as he approach the girl washing dishes. He peeked over the cushions like a bandit. Gerald's hands, to the boy's horror, placed themselves low on her hips, slightly holding her buttocks in his palms. His body sauntered closer, and his face came close to her ear as he whispered something he obviously took pleasure in. The younger male swallowed harshly as Marianela's whole body tensed and he could imagine her eyes wild with fear like an exotic stallion.

She turned around, trying to get out of the little space Gerald had put her in, but Gerald just pressed her body tightly to the counter. She squeaked, and turned her head trying to distance herself even with no place to go. A perverse smile crossed the man's face and he touched her jaw playfully. The boy saw her recoil, but he was rooted in his spot. Gerald then proceeded to lightly stroke her breast with his other hand, and grind his crotch area into her.

Marianela was crying and he couldn't be her savior. He snuck out of the apartment, and stayed out on the roof till it was dark.

He didn't know that Gerald had taken the frightened girl by force into his bedroom. He didn't know that the sick bastard had undressed her while she prayed to God for forgiveness. He didn't know as the man entered her and tarnished her, that she bled.

Marianela was a hopeless romantic. She had told him one Sunday, while she made him hot chocolate and noticed him reading _Gone With the Wind_, that she was saving herself for that special person. She wanted to be married in beautiful white gown, in a gorgeous cathedral, and give the gift of her virginity to the man she loved on her wedding night.

On the roof he almost cried for her, but he was now too old for tears. He would have wept for loss of innocence, injustice, and the full red lips of the first girl he had dreamt about.

His mother found him much later, after the deed was done, and she was clueless.

"Hi."

"Hey."

"How's school?"

"Good."

"Good. How do like Gerald?"

"He's a fucking bastard."

She hadn't said anything in response. She knew it. She had marks, blue and purple and slightly yellow, a rotten rainbow, which littered her body like beauty marks. His handsome looks, and devilish charm were now lucent and she could see she made a deadly mistake marrying the man.

His mom was screw up, and she wished she still had her boy's love. Remember? Unconditional and absolute.

A year later he was starting high school. Soon after the rooftop serenade of truth, his mom filed for divorce, and they moved out. The last time he saw Marianela was in a supermarket by the apartment building. He was buying eggs and Advil when he ran into her. She looked at him, her round eyes two-dimensional, and her cheeks sunken. It had been over three weeks since she had been to the flat. He looked at what she had in her hands and he felt as if he was going to throw up. She looked down too.

"In Puerto Rico, this is a wonderful thing…"

"Mari…"

"…when you're married. I heard your Mama and you were moving out. Gracias a Dios, no?"

"Si."

"You're a good boy. Maybe I will see you someday."

"Yea. Someday."

He never saw her again. She kissed him on the cheek and walked away with her purchase. It would read positive. Gerald would have nothing to do with her. Her mother tried hard to survive without the help of her daughter working. Her daughter, the most beautiful soul he had met at the time, would lose her glossy curves, and lazy smile, and syrupy voice to a hardness that could you not come back from.

As he started high school, he may have been out of that house, but he still had seen purity stripped away, had felt the sharp pain of verbal insults on his skull that he had endured day after day, and had felt the binding anger of hate when mother winced at sudden movement.

It was too late. Damage—irreversible—was done.

The kids from elementary and middle school knew he like to read. They had made fun of him for it. He always carried a book around with him. But as he walked the gossipy hallways full of jocks and cheerleaders and the math team, they thought differently of his knowledge now.

It was a quiet knowledge, just as the boy was. He had had a growth spurt, let his dark hair grow to an unruly length that he calmed with gel. His clothing was dark, and inconspicuous; designed to allow him to blend. Girls began to notice him, thinking he was mysterious, as he had taken up smoking his mother's left over cigarettes and walked with a casual, James Dean lean.

He made friends. That was something new. They weren't the best friends to be around. They were older, meaner, and dirtier. They invited him to the best blowouts, where he would drink his heart out knowing alcohol had little effect on him, and stole cigarettes from people too drunk to care. He never did one drug though. There was enough of that at home.

The little headaches and alone time mommy needed? Give him a fucking break.

He watched late night TV, re-runs of classic shows, secretly enjoying them, secretly envying them with every mother being Donna Reed and every Father knowing Best. He watched low budget B-movies and went through the list of Best Picture winners, renting them for half price because his mom was good 'friends' with the video storeowner, Mike. His music taste had already been well cultured, but during this stage of his life he was attracted to obscure bands that shouted the woes of youth. He preferred records to CD's, because to him, with records, you could really see the music.

He liked things you could see. Then he knew they weren't imaginary.

"Can you put that music down!?"

"Shit."

"What? I can't hear you!"

"Good."

Freshman year was Hell. He didn't mind it so much. He knew he had been in Hell his whole life. He had just been too naïve, too good a boy, to see it. Everyone had said that. You're a good boy. Stay that way.

The illusions people created was something he hated.

He bought a book on magic tricks, and practiced them in the back of the school during lunch, while his 'friends' got high. There was another reason he never did any drugs. He hated feeling as if he had no control over his body.

He got good at the tricks; simple hand movements that made the little things seem extraordinary. He was surprised he actually enjoyed doing the illusions, and had daydreams of running away and becoming a great magician. That was until he remembered the whole purpose of learning the tricks was so that he could see the mechanics of the tricks, and maybe gain an insight on the illusions of the world. He might be able to save himself from being so stupid next time he was faced with having to believe in the goodness of humans.

An ugly blonde in a miniskirt and fishnet tights came up to him one period. She chewed and chewed and chewed, then blow and POP. The sickly sweet smell of bubblegum hit his nostrils, along with her heavy floral perfume—jasmine. He hated this chick.

"I hear you're good at magic."

"Yea."

"What's your name?"

"Wanna see a trick?"

"Sure."

"Watch me disappear."

He turned on his heel and left. She stood with her mouth open, gum dangling, and raccoon eyes angry. He didn't care.

That summer, a pretty, almost-twenty year old moved into the place next to theirs. Her hair was almost red, a brown that was caught on fire, and her eyes were a dark blue, a degree off of black. She'd smile a nice smile to him when she passed him on the stairs, her dark eyes looking straight at him, inviting and alluring. He found himself attracted to her, and would read outside his door just to see her when she left. The slim Salinger his excuse.

It became worse, because in the middle of July, when the heat was steadily climbing and invaded the place like a humid, strangling mist, she had a problem with her shower—could she use theirs? Oh, by the way, she grinned, the name was Antoinette Hale from Georgia. She was going to college in the here in the city when the semester started.

"Just moved down here from a small town called, Cherilynn, right by Alabama."

"How do you like it here so far?"

"Just fine, ma'm. Have you and your son lived here long?"

"Forever."

"How nice."

His mother had smiled warmly and invited her in. She pointed the way to the restroom, Antoinette apologizing and thanking the whole way through. When she passed him, she gave him a once over with a coy smile that made him curious.

His mother retired to her bedroom, while he crept over to the restroom door. Antoinette had left it slightly ajar, and at a certain angle, he had an unobstructed view of the woman undressing. Heat, physical and internal, well up beneath his waistline and his breath was shallow. Her luxurious form pulled back the curtain, every move painful for him, and she entered the shower. The outline of her body was seen through the curtains, and he traced it with the charcoal of his eyes.

Somehow, he knew she was aware he was watching. Somehow, he knew she wanted him too.

After a week of using their shower, she stopped by at the usual time, but this meeting was different. His mother was not there, and would not be for quite some time. Antoinette smirked at slightly, and looked over his shoulder asking about his mother. He told her she wasn't there. He could have sworn something in the woman's eye changed.

She walked past him with her towel and change of clothes, a swaying, Southern rhythm infecting her hips. He watched her go silently. The distinct, whoosh, of the shower being turned on alerted him to take his place the

door, but something, a form of guilt, kept him back. He sat down on the couch. The water stopped too early, and he peeked over the edge of the fraying cushions.

In the doorway of his sin stood in wet, glistening glory the redheaded Antoinette. She walked over to him, like some Anthony Michael Hall fantasy, naked and kissed him slowly. That was hot afternoon he lost his cherry to an older, college girl he barely knew.

He was confused. She looked at him with sappy eyes that held sass. He was even more confused.

"I liked you."

"Huh."

"How old are you? Eighteen?"

"Sixteen."

"Oh."

"I just turned sixteen."

"Well, I'm moving on campus next week, and this was my little good bye. I can't resist a good-looking boy with a book. Even if you are just sixteen."

He said bye back, and suddenly, as fast as her navy eyes came, they vanished. His mother muttered something about a real sweet girl. He lost his taste for redheads and Southern girls.

The next school year began and he fell into darkness.

He was walking home when he literally stumbled on a pair of legs. A soiled, greasy looking homeless man sat against a tin gutter with a woman's paisley scarf wrapped around his neck.

He couldn't find the strength to turn away. The man looked so…defeated. He didn't even seem to know the teenager stood before him. Staring into the light-polluted evening sky, the airplanes as faux stars, the man told his story in simple terms to God.

Dear God, he said, my name is David. I am fifty-two. I had a wife and a kid. I think I killed them. I hate myself. I hate that I love the stuff. Dear God, he begged, I am sorry.

His throat was dry, and when he swallowed he could feel the little qualms of his spirit spiking up in his heart. He wanted to tell the man it was okay like he used to with his mother, when he was young and the night hid the truth. He wanted to say that there was no God even if he himself asked for forgiveness at the times he felt the most pitiable. Sighing, he turned to leave, trying to believe the man was too insane to notice.

"Hey kid!"

"Hello?"

"Think I'm going to Heaven?"

"Yes."

"Goddamn liar."

"Maybe."

"Pray for me, kid, okay?"

With that the man pulled out a gun from the folds of his jacket and shot himself in the face. The fluidity of the motion scared him. He ran. As fast as he could, he barreled down the sidewalk with his ears screaming, until his smoker lungs could hold no more air, and he had to stop, leaning against a building to catch his breath.

He never prayed for the man. Like he said, he didn't believe in God. And when he did, it was for selfish reasons.

He felt stupid, not knowing what was happening under his own nose—the urban decay and filth that surrounded him. He cared for a while, wanting to get the hell out of the rabbit hole God had wedged him into. After a while, he stopped struggling when the dirt above him began to fall and fill his mouth. It made him choke on mud and grime. Soon, he accepted it.

His eyes became half-lidded in a brooding look that he read Ginsberg and Bukowski with, in dim light that encircled him like a halo—he looked like an angel of the night—and his mouth releasing cool puffs of smoke into the air, creating a murky dreamlike setting in which he found himself to be comfortable in, as if he were great, and handsome, and as if he could be a self pitying writer of the streets that everyone would worship after he was dead and gone, his ghost another puff of smoke.

He accepted being nothing and wallowed in it for three hundred and sixty-five days.

"Get your ass up!"

"What?"

"You heard me, get you ass of that shitty couch!"

"What ever did I do, _mom_?"

"You know what you did."

He knew. He hadn't really thought about doing it. It was just another 'activity' he and his friends did. Sometimes they brought their girlfriend of the week with them to show off. It was only stealing they said. It wasn't a real gun they said. And his girlfriend—her name lost in the heat of the back of the car—would laugh and laugh and cheer him on. He was disgusted by her.

They didn't know that night they were caught on video, or that the cops were already knocking on their doors. They didn't know that hitting the guy would get them in so much trouble. They didn't know anything, but at the right times they thought they knew everything.

The man didn't press charges. He knew what it was like to be sixteen, seventeen and restless. Angry. Frustrated. The storeowner wiped his baldhead like a crystal ball, and bit his tongue for the sake of these young men in hopes that they get off that terrific path they were heading down.

His mom, not that he called her that anymore, decided to press her own charges. She was sending him to her brother in Connecticut. She said it was gong to be good for him, and for her. She'd get clean of everything. (She hadn't called them 'helpers' in years. It was a lie and she knew it.)

He was livid. Who was she to send him to some hokey-pokey town? Doors were slammed and words were used rarely between the two. It was all set though. She called, he packed, she waved, and his bus drove away.

He never even got to say goodbye. He imagined what his buddies would have said.

"We'll miss you, man"

"Yea, dude, call us, okay?"

"Don't come back all dorky on us!"

"I love you baby. Stay true to me."

The truth? Aw, shit…

"What the fuck! Your old bitch can't do that!"

"Whatever man. There is this fuckin' crazy raid, and I'm wasting my fuckin' time with this shit."

"You're a loser. Next time we see you, you'll be a goddamn hick."

"We are through. I'm sure there are enough sluts to satisfy you. Make some other girl your bitch. I'm done."

It was nice to know they cared about him.

Next thing you know, he's swept up in a whirl wind of happiness and make-believe and it makes him sick, because he knows this is all fake.

Except for her.

She's fascinating, and beautiful, and odd, and loves pages upon pages of stories like no one else he's known, and he finds himself smiling around her. Her eyes are blazing azure, lips: strawberry hearts, nose: cute, cheeks: blushing, and sensation: innocent.

And he doesn't hate her for it. He may even like her for it. He sees her and remembers when he used to believe in a lot of things. Before time wore him down, and Hope flew away into the sky. It hurts to remember that. So many factors make it hurt like a smoldering cigar being pressed into your flesh, so that the smell drifts into your nose, and you gag at the scent of your own skin cooking.

He wished he were like that again, innocent, but he remembers that he knows the mechanics of the tricks. The little lies they tell you, so you forgive them when they are late, and when they take the next hit, and when they tell you to throw away the only thing that links you to your deadbeat father that you used to pretend was really in a famous band. Those lies he even told himself.

With her, she is blameless, and he knows she will see he is not. That his skin is flecked with burns of the world's cigars that stamped 'STUPID' and 'WORTHLESS' on his chest like Gerald did to his brain. His uncle, he finds, tries to look past those scars, but he doesn't let him, because he scared. He remembers what happened when he trusted people. They let him down, and no doubt his uncle is no different.

He used to believe in a lot of things.

They are listed in books, and sung about in songs.

"Jess?"

"Yea?"

"Do you believe in love?"

Along time ago. Yes.

_End._

* * *

_R & R…_


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